Changing Patterns (20 page)

Ellen saw her looking. ‘Mam left it behind when they moved. She said they had two copies.’

‘It was a lovely day,’ Jean said. The memory hurt. ‘We went from the Registry Office to the Crown on the bus. You should have seen the driver’s face.’ She stopped. ‘Of course you did see, you were there.’ And tried to spoil things in a fit of jealousy, if I remember rightly. But she kept that thought to herself.

They stood staring at the photograph, lost in their own thoughts.

Jean closed her eyes. Patrick could have run a mile after she lost the first baby but he hadn’t. The flash of love and gratitude was deadened by what he was doing now, what he had done since they were married. He seemed incapable of keeping his hands off other women. Of course her mother was relieved they’d married, probably less worried about her daughter being ruined in front of the neighbours than of being terrified of losing her meal ticket on the black market. At the time, Patrick had his fingers in many pies. Still had, she supposed. These days she didn’t bother to ask.

She looked around for her scarf.

‘It must be still in the front room. I’ll get it.’ Ellen hurried off.

Jean looked in the age-spotted mirror by the back door, fluffed up her now dried curls. She chose not to look at her face, shiny and flushed from the tears. ‘I’ve still got my wedding outfit, you know,’ she called, ‘back of the wardrobe.’ Ellen came back into the kitchen, scarf in hand. It was obvious she wasn’t listening. ‘Doesn’t fit now, of course,’ Jean said, more to herself than the other woman. ‘Thanks.’ She took the scarf from Ellen and pushed it into her coat pocket. ‘No point in putting it on, it’s wet through.’

‘Borrow Hannah’s old umbrella.’ Ellen went into the scullery and came out unfurling a brown umbrella covered in mould marks. ‘Chuck it when you get home, it’s had its day.’

She’d hardly finished speaking when the gate to the yard crashed open and they could hear someone whistling. Ellen groaned. ‘Oh my God.’

Jean looked at her in bewilderment. ‘What?’

The latch on the back door snapped down, the door opened and a young woman poked her head around it. ‘Wonder if I can borrow…’

‘Doreen,’ Ellen said.

Ellen looked from one woman to the other, she saw both faces drain of colour.

‘Fuckin ’ell.’ The woman held on to the door, the rain splashing in off the doorstep onto the linoleum, but no one noticed.

Jean’s mouth twisted. She drew herself up. ‘Quite,’ she said.

Doreen Whittaker flushed. Chin raised high and with a defiant set to her mouth she stepped inside and leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Jean’s legs buckled. Ellen moved quickly, catching hold of her elbow. ‘Here, sit down.’ She lowered Jean onto one of the chairs and stood behind her, her hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re all right,’ she said.

Jean stared at Doreen.

‘I’ll get you a drink.’ Ellen crossed to the scullery, passing Doreen. ‘What?’ she said curtly.

‘Some sugar?’ Doreen Whittaker raised a bowl. Composed, she stood, back arched to emphasise her swollen belly under the maternity smock, meeting Jean’s scrutiny calmly.

‘None to spare, sorry,’ Ellen said. ‘What’s up? Mrs Miles decided she’s not going to be a soft touch anymore?’

Doreen glowered. ‘She’s not in, and anyway she’s not a soft touch, she’s a good neighbour.’

Jean couldn’t believe she was listening to them talking about sugar when her whole world was crumbling. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She was afraid.

Ellen let the water run for a minute, rinsing a cup under the tap and finally running water into it. ‘You still here?’ Ellen glanced over her shoulder. ‘Can’t you take a hint?’

‘No,’ Jean said, ‘I want to hear what she has to say for herself.’ Her head spun. The kitchen whirled in a stream of colours.

Ellen moved to her side. ‘Drink this.’

Jean glanced at her, gratefully, and took the cup.

‘Say for myself? What are you talking about?’ Doreen flicked her fringe back, a slight smile on her face. But there was trepidation in her eyes and it was obvious to Ellen she was as alarmed as Jean with the encounter.

‘You know who I am?’ Jean said.

Doreen lifted her shoulders. ‘Seen you around, I suppose. What’s the matter? I only came to borrow some sugar.’

‘Shut up about the sugar,’ Jean said calmly. ‘You know I’m Patrick’s wife.’

‘Who?’

Jean saw the change in her face at the mention of his name. ‘Don’t play games with me, lady, I’m not stupid.’ She sipped the water, took in and held her breath slightly before letting it go. The room stilled, the colours faded, the rain slowed to an occasional splash on the window. ‘Whose baby is it?’ she said, almost casually.

‘What do you mean? I’m a married woman.’

‘Whose baby?’ Jean said again.

‘My business, I think,’ Doreen said, smoothing the flowered top over her stomach and resting her hand on it.

The boldness wasn’t lost on Jean. She wanted to leap at the woman, tear clumps of her hair out, to scratch and destroy the beauty. Because there was no doubt she was beautiful, she thought bitterly. Trust Patrick to go for a lovely face however vacuous the mind – or how coarse the voice.

‘My husband’s?’ Jean hadn’t expected to be so forthright. And now she was terrified of the answer. Her world was falling apart.

Doreen shrugged but then said, ‘Course not.’ Then, as though she understood she’d given herself away, she said, ‘Who did you say your husband was?’

‘You know full well who he is.’ Jean jumped up. ‘Is that…’ She pointed with a shaking finger at Doreen’s stomach. ‘Is that his?’

Doreen looked Jean up and down. ‘Could be … yes,’ she said finally.

‘I’m going bloody nowhere.’ Patrick emptied out his clothes from the suitcase onto the bed. ‘We can sort this out.’

‘Sort out what?’ Jean grabbed the handle and tugged it away from him, her face flushed with temper. ‘What’s there to sort out?’ She began shoving his things back into it. ‘You’ve had an affair. Again. But this time you’ve gone one better and you’ve made your floozy pregnant.’ She stumbled over the word; the desperation she felt each month, knowing yet again she wasn’t pregnant, fuelled her rage. She made an impatient sound as she tried to close the case and couldn’t. A sleeve from one of his jumpers snagged in the lock.

‘You’re fucking ruining that.’ Patrick dragged the suitcase towards him.

The anger flashed through Jean and she pushed him. He overbalanced and when he steadied himself he raised his hands, the veins standing out at his temples.

Jean backed away. For one awful moment she thought he was going to hit her again. Her heart thumped, sweat prickled her scalp. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘and it’ll be the last time, Patrick Howarth.’ The fear was intermingled with sudden, almost physical hatred.

Patrick froze. Gazing straight at her he said, ‘I’m sorry, Jean, I’m so sorry.’

‘Once was more than enough.’ The relief hardened her voice. ‘I was a fool. I should have left you then.’ She knew now she’d got the upper hand. ‘I want you to leave, Patrick.’ She stepped towards him, more confident now. ‘I want you to go.’

‘No.’ He was almost pleading. ‘I’ve been bloody stupid. I’ve made a bad mistake.’

‘Just the one?’ She crossed her arms, rubbing her damp palms on the sleeves of her cardigan. The pounding in her chest was slowing. ‘Is that how you see all your tarts … as mistakes? You’ve got a bloody nerve. And this one? This one that’s pregnant?’

‘Doesn’t make any difference. It might not be mine. Doreen’s admitted—’

‘Don’t you say her name in this house,’ Jean hissed. She flung out an arm. ‘In this room, in our bedroom, you bastard.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘And Jacqueline,’ Jean said. ‘Don’t forget your daughter. You’re losing her too.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve already said that. I’ve heard it all before,’ Jean jeered. She couldn’t help herself.

‘I mean it. I don’t know how it started … how any of it started.’ Patrick paused and then began speaking again. ‘It’s always been the same – one minute we’re okay and then the next you’re in a mood and I don’t even know what I’ve done. I’m not explaining myself well. I’m not good with words, not like you anyway.’ He ran his hands over his head, held them there. His eyes glistened. ‘Put me in front of a market stall or a load of blokes at a union meeting and I’m off. I can sell sand to the Arabs. But with you, with anything to do with you, I make a bollocks of it. You can run rings round me.’

‘So it’s my fault is it? You can’t keep your trousers buttoned up because I have moods? Is that what you tell yourself? Don’t you even try to blame me for all your … your gallivanting, you sod.’ Jean breathed deeply. He was unbelievable. Yet, even as she spoke she struggled to maintain the disgust she’d felt. She’d not seen him so cowed before and she didn’t like it. What do you want? she asked herself. The answer came quickly – she wanted him to love her as much as she wanted to punish him. She waited.

‘No, it’s me, it’s all me.’ Patrick straightened. ‘It’s always been me. I’ve never treated you right.’ His voice was strong. ‘And I promise I’ll make everything okay. Whatever it takes.’

‘It’s too late.’ Jean moved her head, dismissing him. She dragged the suitcase towards her again, pushed the sleeve inside and clicked the lock.

‘What’s happening?’ Jacqueline stood in the doorway, uncertainty on her face. ‘Are we going on holiday?’ Her eyes were fixed on the suitcase. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

‘No.’ Patrick spoke calmly, meeting Jean’s eyes. ‘Nobody’s going anywhere.
’

Ellen cursed softly under her breath. She’d known that one way or the other she’d get dragged into Jean and Patrick’s mess. She’d telephone Mary as soon as the children’s breakfast things were cleared away; Mary would have to come to Ashford, help sort it all out. It wasn’t fair she had to do this on her own. It wasn’t her problem.

Ellen swished the last of the cutlery around in the water, her thoughts skittering back half an hour to when Jean had arrived unexpectedly with Jacqueline to take Linda to school. It was a shock when Jean had told her Patrick had refused to leave so she and Jacqueline were staying at her mother’s. Linda’s giggles of excitement at the unexpected treat of having her cousin living so close again had stopped when Jacqueline cried. Ellen couldn’t stop herself thinking that the house on Moss Terrace would seem pokey to her sister-in-law after the one on Manchester Road.

She took the pot towel off the hook. Without turning round she knew Hannah was standing on the last step of the stairs, holding back the curtain. She heard the wheezing breaths, the rustle of her shapeless black dress. ‘Ted’s not home yet from the bakery,’ she said, ‘but I’ve made porridge for when he gets back. You can have some of that.’

‘No eggs?’

‘None in the corner shop. They hadn’t delivered. Didn’t deliver yesterday either, something to do with a shortage of hen food – apparently it’s still rationed.’ Ellen swirled the little mop head round in a cup, trying to get the tea stain off. ‘Mrs Cox’s hens aren’t laying.’

Hannah snorted and shuffled towards the scullery. Holding on to the table and chairs, her movements were more side to side than forward.

Ellen watched her from the corner of her eye, noticing with distaste the folds of her red-veined ankles settling over the sides of her slippers each time she stopped to take in a wheezing breath.

At the sink Hannah took the bottle of milk out of the basin of cold water and carried it dripping to the kitchen table. She groaned as she lifted one leg after the other off the buffet her feet were resting on. She saw the look on Ellen’s face. ‘If you had to put up with my legs you’d have summat to moan about.’

‘I have you to put up with,’ Ellen said, ‘that’s worse than varicose ulcers any day.’

Hannah carefully peeled off the silver cap and poured the milk into a bowl.

‘You’ve taken all the cream off the top,’ Ellen said. ‘You could have shaken it.’

The woman turned her back to her.

‘It’s just that Ted likes cream on his porridge as well.’

Silence. Then, ‘So, that’s another bastard what’s going to be born into your family.’

Ellen was stunned by the cruel baldness of the statement. Hannah had obviously overheard the row between Jean and Doreen.

‘Your brother’s got her next door up the tub, then?’ Hannah dragged a chair out from under the table with a screech, setting Ellen’s teeth on edge. ‘Seems these things run in the family eh? Happen it’s a good job there’s one brother less.’ She grinned, showing red wet gums. ‘Oh no, I forgot, from what I heard, women weren’t his thing, right?’

Hannah was hunched over the porridge stirring it when Ellen slapped her. Her head whipped round with the force and the spoon clattered across the kitchen floor. Hannah balanced herself by flattening her palms on the table on either side of the bowl. When she heaved herself up with a hoarse roar, Ellen left, the back door vibrating with the slam.

Ellen steadied herself against the dustbin in the backyard and leant forward, folded her arms over her head. She felt winded by the hatred inside her. She wouldn’t go back inside until Ted came back from his night shift. ‘I’ll kill her, so help me God, before long I’ll kill her.’ She took in a long shuddering gulp of air and even though the yard retained the warmth of the morning sun, a chill shook her. When the tears, held back by anger, brimmed and poured down her face, they fell unheeded on the frills at the neck of her apron.